


Now I beg (to see you dance just one more time)

by doomed_spectacles



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body hair and facial hair appreciation, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dancing, Disco, Disco Crowley, Facial Hair, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Pining while fucking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Sad disco sexy times, Smoking, Tony is so much smoother than Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25425808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: Ten years after handing over a tartan thermos and a piece of his heart, Aziraphale goes to the disco. He finds relief, and more heartache, in a familiar dance with a mustachioed demon."You came to the disco, Aziraphale," he said, his voice a low growl. Crowley stuffed the tartan tie in his open shirt's chest pocket. He met Aziraphale's eyes, all golden fire with a thin slash of velvet black. "Are you going to dance?"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 80
Collections: Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	Now I beg (to see you dance just one more time)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a song that won't leave my brain: [Dance Monkey by Tones and I](https://open.spotify.com/track/2XU0oxnq2qxCpomAAuJY8K).
> 
> I've been loving all the Tony works coming out this month and couldn't resist the pull of adding my own. I've taken it in a sad direction here, so please be warned this is a bit heavy. (But the love is there!)
> 
> Huge thanks to Leilakalomi for the beta and suggestions! This is a much better piece due to your input. (I think. I hope!)

[1977]

Crowley was dancing.

He wouldn't have called it _good_ dancing. But Aziraphale's standards were clearly different than most people alive this decade. He sat at the bar and watched. Humans in brightly colored clothes writhed in much the same way they had for the rest of human history, albeit with more pointing. And something called a conga line.

Crowley moved with about as much grace as any of the humans surrounding him. It wasn't _talent_ , exactly, but Aziraphale had to admit they displayed a certain raw sensuality. The beat was fast; On the dance floor, a blur of frenetic bodies glided around each other in a tangled swarm. They moved with desperation, as if once the music stopped — once the _movement_ stopped — all the swirling neon colors would turn to gray.

He drank a gin cocktail, certain that Crowley saw him. And that he would come when the music faded.

Aziraphale watched. Crowley, yes, but the humans who surrounded him, too. They wore their hair in giant bobbing afros and long loose braids that swayed as they moved. Shiny platform shoes glittered under the flair of bell-bottomed trousers. There was a certain flash to this era: a neon exuberance that excited something in him he wouldn't admit to. Something sweaty and corporeal and wholly human. He didn't sway to the beat. He didn't dance, not now. 

Aziraphale watched.

On the postage-stamp dance floor, fifty humans and a demon packed into a space made to fit a dozen. They writhed, bodies twisting in delight and maybe something else, too. Disco delirium. He caught a glimpse of Crowley's red hair and matching crimson shirt but lost it in a tangle of polyester polka dots and velvet patterned swirls. Aziraphale crushed an ice cube with his teeth. The sound echoed loudly in his skull against the backdrop of a snare drum.

Crowley caught his eye. Despite the aviators covering his face, Aziraphale could tell. When their eyes met, he knew. The spark was inescapable.

He arched an eyebrow and turned back to the bar.

One song faded into another. This one was slower, with a sensual saxophone riff behind a synthetic keyboard melody. A woman with a deep smoky voice wailed about an undeniable love that pulled you in and left you shattered to pieces in its wake.

Aziraphale pulled out a cigarette and patted his coat pockets. He knew where his lighter was, but the gesture was a necessary part of the ritual. It comforted him, to complete the rite, unnecessary as it was. As unnecessary for him as the act of breathing or seeking shelter from a storm, yet he did those too.

A flame appeared under his face, attached to a Zippo. Aziraphale looked past the delicate hand holding it, up a sheer maroon sleeve to the demon behind him. Crowley held the flame just under Aziraphale’s unlit cigarette, a question in the lift of his eyebrows. He was entirely too close. Aziraphale could smell the sweat that gathered in his body's crevices. His shirt was undone almost to the navel and a dark map of hair led Aziraphale's eyes downwards.

He bent to touch the end of his cigarette to the fire and took a pull.

Crowley pocketed the lighter. He pulled out a slim black case and picked out a stick of his own. His bushy mustache hairs parted around it when he put it in his mouth. The effect was absurd and yet, somehow, obscene.

He expected Crowley to touch their cigarettes together in an indirect kiss. He watched, waiting for the touch. Instead, Crowley lifted his index finger to his lips. A spark appeared on the end of it. Crowley smirked while he lit his cigarette on self-made flame.

"Flash," he said dismissively. It came out exactly as haughty as he intended.

"That's my middle name," Crowley replied with a wag of his eyebrows.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "As I recall, your middle name is 'just a J really.’ "

Crowley tongued the inside of his cheek to hide a smile but it didn't work. It hadn't for centuries. In this era, it pushed his mustache askance, which emphasized his mirth instead of obfuscating it. An ocean of humans surrounded them, jostling and giggling and blowing smoke in each other's faces. They flowed, unaware, around two immortal beings at the bar.

"Are you still wearing an ascot?" Crowley said, blowing a thin stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth, angling it away from Aziraphale's face.

He took a deep drag, pulling smoke into his body's lungs. Fire lit him up from the inside. He crushed the barely-used cigarette into a swirled glass tray on the bar top. Aziraphale looked the demon crowding him up and down. His eyes flicked over the too-tight polyester that clung to his hips. "Are you going to critique my fashion choices or are you going to follow me?"

Crowley stubbed out his own butt next to Aziraphale's. Their smoking remnants kissed in a disgusting glass full of ash.

"You know the answer to that, angel," Crowley said, directly in his ear. The hairs of his mustache ghosted over sensitive skin, causing an involuntary shudder. "Followed you up the first wall, didn't I? After you blew a hole in it."

He met Crowley's eyes through a barrier of darkened plastic. Without a word, or stopping to see if he was followed, Aziraphale weaved through the crowd to the men's room.

He pushed Crowley in the door and claimed his mouth in a bruising kiss. Their teeth clicked together but Aziraphale ignored it. _Finally_. He thrust his tongue in Crowley's mouth, which earned him a low groan. He tasted of a fresh cigarette. Ashy and sour, but underneath it was _Crowley_. His new facial hair tickled Aziraphale’s face and with it came the prick of old memories, long shelved. He pushed away thoughts of stubble. Of the thin strips of red hair he’d tasted in centuries past.

As he knew he would, Crowley backed him into the wall. They both gasped at the full-body contact but couldn’t stop kissing.

With a snap, Aziraphale locked the door.

He shoved the glasses off Crowley's face, impatient. They clattered to the ground next to Crowley's platform heels. 

Aziraphale tore at the remaining buttons on Crowley's shirt. When he finally got them undone, he shoved the sides of the crimson shirt apart and took in the sight of a deep V of dark red chest hair. He took a moment to drink in the sight of him before biting a bruise onto Crowley's collarbone.

With his hands still fisted in Aziraphale's coat, Crowley sucked in a breath. He wasn’t holding Aziraphale up, he was holding on. "Ten years, angel," he said softly. "You said-"

"I know." Aziraphale licked the salt from Crowley's chest, flicking his tongue over a pointed nipple. He tasted brackish under Aziraphale’s roaming tongue, his skin slick. "I know what I said." He wouldn’t say it again. He’d had ten years to hear his own words repeated back at him from the recesses of his mind like a chorus line that wouldn’t quit. _You go too fast for me._

Aziraphale pushed his thumbs into Crowley's sharp hip bones. He pulled their groins together, angling his hips up to grind his erection against Crowley's. In the ten years since that night, Crowley had grown his hair and gained a mustache. He’d danced his way through Soho, even New York if the rumors he’d heard were true. All while Aziraphale waited, static. Alone and wanting.

He felt Crowley take a shuddering breath before he released his hold and stepped back.

The air around them changed. It fluctuated subtly as Crowley’s shoes squeaked on the ugly linoleum floor. He stood facing Aziraphale in the awful bluish lambent tint of the nightclub restroom. Aziraphale felt him shift, some internal decision made in that infernal mind.

Suddenly, Crowley snatched the ascot from around Aziraphale's neck. He snapped it dramatically, the way a bullfighter wields a red flag. As if Aziraphale was a beast whose desires he could tame — or not _tame_ , but _channel_. The sides of Crowley's mouth ticked up; bristles of his paintbrush mustache splayed across his face in a bushy smirk. His bottom lip was wet.

"You came to the disco, Aziraphale," he said, his voice a low growl. Crowley stuffed the tartan tie in his open shirt's chest pocket. He met Aziraphale's eyes, all golden fire with a thin slash of velvet black. "Are you going to dance?"

Slowly, deliberately, Crowley stepped forward. He licked his lips. They hadn’t danced outside — _this_ was their dance. As Aziraphale watched, his snake put on a new skin. He was seduction, manifested. As Crowley became the tempter, he gave Aziraphale a chance to back away.

The magnanimity of the gesture took Aziraphale's breath away. _He'd_ initiated this. He'd been the one to pull Crowley away from the glittering ball throwing colorful shards of light around the dance floor. But Crowley was giving him the thing he needed most while he stood, hard and panting, against a grimy anonymous wall: deniability. He gave Aziraphale a way to back out. The escape valve that wasn’t a lie, not exactly. _It's not my fault; I was tempted_. 

A flood of feelings crashed over him and Aziraphale closed his eyes. It was too much. They threatened to overcome every barrier he’d erected to shut Crowley out since they'd stood on the very first wall.

When he opened his eyes, Crowley had reached out a hand but stopped halfway. He'd misunderstood; his face, unmasked by glasses, showed a troubled vulnerability. Like a raw nerve waiting to be pressed, it was the same face Aziraphale had turned away from under a different decade’s neon lights.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s extended hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed Crowley's open palm lightly, softly, then guided Crowley’s hand to the bulge in his trousers.

Crowley’s mustache exaggerated his grin as he curled his fingers around Aziraphale’s erection. All the questions left the demon’s eyes. He unbuttoned Aziraphale’s trousers with agonizing slowness.

Aziraphale let out an impatient breath.

“In a hurry, Aziraphale?” Crowley crooned, stroking him through the fabric of his undergarments.

“I-” Aziraphale started, but the words sputtered then died on his lips. _I need you. I want you. Please come back to me. I forgive you. I can never forgive you._ He kissed Crowley and put in the kiss all the things he couldn’t say.

Crowley knew. He must’ve felt it, because Crowley broke the kiss and scrambled to his knees.

Without preamble, he took Aziraphale in his mouth. He sucked Aziraphale eagerly, as if all the writhing on the dance floor, all the teasing and the head-thrown-back ecstasy of earlier had been a prelude to this, what he really wanted. Crowley held the base of Aziraphale’s cock steady with one hand while he curled his lips around the tip. 

Aziraphale looked down at him. His eyes were closed in concentration and the damp hair on his lip spilled over into the sensitive skin of Aziraphale's sex.

It was too much. It was exactly what he wanted. Music throbbed in his ears, and though he couldn't hear specific notes, he felt the rhythm of the beat through the wall at his back. Crowley bobbed his head on Aziraphale's cock, with one hand braced against the wall. He sucked him exactly like Aziraphale needed him to. He swallowed Aziraphale exactly like he had so many times before.

Crowley split his tongue and curled it around the sensitive spot just under the head. Aziraphale cried out at the pleasure of it. He grabbed hold of the wall next to him with one hand and the cold metal condom dispenser next to his shoulder with the other. He barely held on as his legs buckled.

"Crowley, yes, my dea-" he said, nonsense words escaping from his mouth without thought. "I, oh yes, Crowley, I-"

Crowley grabbed his hand with the one he'd been using for balance. He threaded their fingers together and crushed them in a vice-like grip. 

The painful pressure on his hand brought Aziraphale back from the brink. He met Crowley's eyes and somehow he understood the signal in that squeeze. _Don't say it. I won’t ever make you say it._

Aziraphale let go of the metal box on the wall. He ran a hand through Crowley's hair, feeling the stiffness of the product he'd used to fluff it. He pictured Crowley in front of his mirror in the flat he kept downtown, arms raised, spraying the ginger roots of his hair with aerosol.

When Crowley split his tongue again, pleasure coursed through his body. He came into Crowley's mouth. Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand tightly and took all of it. Everything faded away as Aziraphale felt the release he’d been avoiding for so long. The walls he’d built crumbled to dust as he remembered how this felt and forgot why he'd denied it. He focused on the aftershocks of pleasure and the strong grip Crowley had on his hand, anchoring him through waves of sensation. Crowley licked gentle circles around Aziraphale's sensitive skin as he softened. He released Aziraphale from his mouth with an obscene pop.

Aziraphale's vision slowly returned from the whiteout of orgasm. His ears still rang, drowning out the music still pulsing through the wall. Crowley had tucked him back into his trousers and stood. His hair formed a chaotic red cloud around his dazed face. It wasn’t bedhead, but close. Tousled and beautiful. His mouth was swollen and his mustache was wet with saliva and come.

Crowley rested his elbows against the wall, bracketing Aziraphale's head between them. He nuzzled Aziraphale's neck and whispered in his ear. The bristles of his mustache tickled the sensitive spot at the base of his hairline. "I'll follow you up the last wall too, angel," he said. 

He pressed closer, and Aziraphale could feel him, hard underneath the layers of fabric against his hip. 

"You can put those stones back," Crowley said. "You can rebuild a thousand times but I'll always know it was you who busted open the very first wall."

Not trusting himself to respond with words, Aziraphale unbuckled Crowley's slim leather belt and reached inside. He felt Crowley, hard and here with him. Wanting. _His_. Crowley thrust into his hand, shoving his back even harder against the wall. He sucked Aziraphale's neck, careful to keep below the line of his collar where no bruises would tarnish the perfect skin he showed to the rest of the world. Aziraphale stroked him, closing his eyes as he felt a surge of affection for the dancing disco demon who bucked wildly into his hand.

“Angel,” Crowley growled into his neck.

With his other hand, Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's ass, hard. He pulled Crowley into the cradle of his hand, pulling him as close he could. He’d pulled Crowley off the dance floor and he pulled them together here in this dingy little bubble of muted sound and harsh breathing. He pulled Crowley back to him. Back from _fraternizing_ , back from _someday_ , back from _too fast for me_. With his body pressed as tight as possible to Crowley’s and his fist clenched around his cock, Aziraphale prayed that Crowley understood. 

The music quieted for a moment and he could hear Crowley moan into his shoulder. He knew. He always knew. Crowley thrust into his fist with a steady rhythm and he could feel Crowley's breaths come faster. Little puffs of air blew through his mustache hot onto Aziraphale's shirt, making it damp. He slid his thumb over the head of Crowley's cock, smearing him with slick. He worked Crowley faster, kneading his hip with the hand not clenched tight around his cock.

Crowley drew his head back and touched their foreheads together. He could feel damp sweat on Crowley's brow. Their unnecessary breaths mingled, hot and desperate and heavy with feeling.

Aziraphale slowed his hand. He loosened his fist and felt the velvety smooth skin under his fingers. "You'd slither up any wall I built anyway," he said softly, "wouldn't you my dear?"

He gripped Crowley tight again, encouraging him to buck into his hand with an indulgent smile. It was coy but it was kind, and he felt Crowley grow impossibly harder. Aziraphale brought his free hand up to grab Crowley's neck. He pulled him into a fierce kiss, sealing their mouths together. 

Crowley came with a groan that was ripped straight from his throat into Aziraphale's. He gasped, breaking free and panting. He pulsed in Aziraphale's hand, spilling into his fist as Aziraphale slowed his hand and stroked his back to coax him down. The lightness of his own orgasm was fading, and Aziraphale felt terror creeping back in through remnants of the walls in his mind. _It’s too much. It’s not enough. I can’t._

"Angel," Crowley whispered, before kissing him gently. He cupped Aziraphale's face with both hands, holding him in place while he gently licked at his lips.

Crowley's mustache tickled Aziraphale's nose, and the tingling sent a wave of electricity through his body. Crowley sighed against his mouth and the little sound of it broke Aziraphale open. It was _I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go._ It was _what’s for lunch_ and _little demonic miracle of my own_. Tears pricked at his eyes and Aziraphale willed them away.

He broke the kiss.

Crowley sought his eyes but Aziraphale couldn't meet them. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his hand. A cheer broke out from the crowd on the dance floor as the music swelled into a crescendo. He felt it reverberate through the wall but the sound was muffled. The joy of it was a discordant note that clashed with the ache in his chest as Crowley pulled away, zipping his trousers and buttoning his shirt.

Aziraphale took his ascot back from Crowley's breast pocket. He smoothed it out and looped it around Crowley's neck. The whites of Crowley's eyes disappeared into yellow at the tenderness of the gesture — at the everyday intimacy it implied. He tied the silk tie in an inelegant knot that sat at the top of the V made by Crowley's mostly-open shirt.

"There," he said, smoothing the fabric, "it hides the, um-"

Crowley looked down at his borrowed necktie, then back at Aziraphale. He covered Aziraphale's hands with his own, deliberately tugging the ascot loose. Crowley pulled the collar of his shirt open almost to his navel, exposing a ring of purple welts blossoming around his neck.

"Don't," Crowley said, showing off his marks. Either of them could’ve vanished the necklace of bruises bitten into Crowley’s skin. Neither did.

Aziraphale watched as he stuffed one end of the tie into the tight waistband of his pants. The other end stuck out just to the side of the zipper. It formed a strange island of light amid the crimson and black of his clothes. A lurid souvenir.

Crowley snapped his fingers and a fresh pair of mirrored glasses appeared on his face. He made a cocky finger gun gesture and twitched his mouth into a half-smile as he turned. It was exactly the type of hopelessly uncool move designed to elicit a tease. Instead, it tightened Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley, the dancing demon in a mustache and platform shoes. Crowley, slipping back into his original tempter skin so Aziraphale could claim the innocence of Eve. And so he never, ever had to say what he felt out loud. The crack in his veneer became a gaping chasm.

"See you around, angel," Crowley said, not looking back. He opened the door and music bled back into the charged air of the washroom.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He breathed in through his nose as blood sang in his veins. The click of the door closing rang in his ears like a gunshot. He rebuilt the wall in his mind, slowly, while at his back, the music played on.

He left through the rear entrance of the club. Aziraphale stepped onto pavement that was slick with a storm they'd missed entirely. Neon lights broke the darkness, their hazy edges reflected in oily puddles. He walked home through the flickering city lights and only later, when disco was declared dead, breathed a sigh of relief.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles)


End file.
